


Ability Torture

by Nuwandalz



Series: Abuse of Abilities [2]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, M/M, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-16
Updated: 2010-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 03:58:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuwandalz/pseuds/Nuwandalz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You told me this ability was good for either entertainment, or torture...Guess which one I plan on using?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ability Torture

**Author's Note:**

> This is the follow-up to 'Ability Testing'. Beta by rtwofan, all other mistakes are mine.

The only real trouble with his ability to mimic a power is that he goes through the same motions as everyone else with their first time – struggling to control and understand this new gift. Being able to hold only one at a time has at least taken away the added pressure of juggling control for an assortment of abilities.

As Peter slips away from yet another club, the tang of some redhead’s lip gloss smeared on his lips, he really wishes he’d gotten a hang of this _pleasure_ -power a hell of a lot quicker. He’s sure if Sylar knew he’d borrowed the ability he’d be taunting Peter mercilessly, declaring it had only taken minutes before Sylar understood it for himself completely. It’s probably not the same though – mastering the ability at its most basic was easy – offer physical contact and let ecstasy pour into the person he was touching. It was trying to master the power’s _full_ potential that Peter was stuck on; being able to alternate the types of desire, switching between emotional and physical. Peter figures there’s only so long he can keep a useless power like this; it isn’t exactly a talent that’s helped him at work. 

He was absolutely determined to work out the very last hitch of the ability before he even considered hunting Sylar down and giving him a taste of his own medicine. With that in mind, Peter wipes away the somewhat oily and chemical taste of cherry from his mouth and heads into, hopefully, the last club of the night. He spots a blonde who looks uninterested at one of the couches at the back, her unimpressed gaze constantly raking over the club. Peter catches her eye and smiles.

They dance together, Peter letting his fingertips barely graze her as he pushes the power towards her, watching her eyes grow wider, her mouth falling open more. When she bites down on her bottom lip, her body simply swaying to the music, Peter grins. He stops touching her, allows her brain to kick back into gear and sees the high of arousal seep out of her body. She grabs his hand and pulls him towards the back, the beat of the music matching her steps.

They stumble towards one of the restrooms and Peter manages to spot a few girls hurrying out of their way before he’s being spun into a small bathroom – grimy toilet and sink shoved deep into the corner. He feels momentarily guilty for what he’s about to do to her, but she had been the one to bring him in and testing this on her is important for his plan to work. 

Peter lets his hands return her to a state of bliss; the tingles working over his fingertips make her skin hot and feverish. He tries to curl the pleasure into an emotional one, backing up from over-sensitizing her body. The girl is flushed, panting and moaning, having backed herself up against the sink, her pale hands clenching at the porcelain and keeping herself standing. 

He stands there with her, hands on her sides and barely moving, all his focus inward. Peter takes one more moment to solidify the desire in her body and then slowly brings his hands away. He watches her face, the tremors running through her body, then eyes his shaky hands and waits.

Barely a minute passes and the girl before him is still aroused, lost to a mental high. Peter grins, his arms crossed in front of him and thinks _finally_. He takes one moment to watch the girl, wonders if this will be how Sylar will look when he tries using his newfound control.

Peter draws the power back towards himself, charges his hands with physical arousal and places his hands back on the girl, watching her orgasm pull her apart at the contact.

He tries very hard to contain the urge to skip out of the club, his ears ringing with how he imagines Sylar’s moans to sound.

-o-

Peter realizes his error the moment he gets home. He’d spent so much time and effort honing his mastery over the ability he didn’t even consider _how_ he was going to hunt Sylar down. Asking Noah or Molly for help is out of the question, especially since killing Sylar isn’t the reason for needing to find him (well not yet anyway). He goes to sleep irritated and drifts off to thoughts of leaving Sylar a note somewhere.

He’s always been slightly thrown by Sylar’s knack at _finding_ him and three days after realizing he has no idea where Sylar lives, the shock still knocks him back when he finds Sylar at his door, waiting.

“Here to show me some other power of yours?” Peter doesn’t turn to look at him, focuses instead on getting his key to work in the lock. He can see Sylar out the corner of his eye.  
“Wanted to see how you were doing after my last gift,” Sylar offers.

Peter tries to look annoyed and pushes inside his apartment, can feel Sylar follow him inside.

“What, you want a rematch?” Peter moves to drop his keys on one of the tables, lets his bag slip off his shoulder to land on the ground. He hears Sylar’s heavy footsteps and turns around, facing him.

“I guess I’m like an insect, drawn to you,” Sylar says mockingly, stepping closer to Peter. Peter guesses the distance from where they’re standing to the bed and figures he could make it; assuming Sylar doesn’t put up a fight.

He grins and Sylar blinks slowly, curious before Peter takes advantage of the pause and grabs Sylar, throwing him down to the floor. Peter sees his chance and presses his hands to Sylar’s exposed skin, laying one hand at Sylar’s throat, the other curling around Sylar’s wrist. The effect is instantaneous, Sylar arching up and groaning, eyes glittering and Peter struggles to keep his grip sure. 

“Looks like you got more out of it than I thought,” Sylar says, voice sounding strained.

“Guess so,” Peter agrees. He removes the hand from Sylar’s throat and uses it to grab Sylar’s other arm, pulling him up. Still channeling desire through touch to keep Sylar compliant, Peter moves them to the bedroom, pushing Sylar over to the bed and crawling over him. 

Peter works on pushing the arousal through Sylar, finding a strange sort of resistance fighting him. With Sylar fighting back, it makes the ability weaken; only seeming to work through skin touch only.

Peter bites back a curse, notices Sylar’s smirk and punches him hard in the shoulder.  
“I’m trying to return the favor here.”

Sylar’s eyes are bright but his body is tense, still fighting. Peter keeps his hand on Sylar’s wrist, possibly gripping it to the point of pain but starts to use his other hand to shift Sylar’s clothes away, searching for more skin.

“What do you plan on doing Peter? Wait it out and see who prevails?” Sylar’s tone is mocking but his words turn into a gasp as Peter finally manages to push a hand to Sylar’s stomach.

“Looks like I’ve got the advantage from where I’m sittin,” Peter replies, moving the palm of his hand, feeling Sylar’s stomach muscles flutter. Sylar breathes out, almost a sigh and shifts on the bed as if to get more comfortable. Peter watches him cautiously, still thrumming the high of bliss out of his body and into Sylar’s.

Sylar looks at him for one long moment before he grins, teeth showing. Peter feels Sylar’s wrist twist in his grip, Sylar’s long fingers coming to grab back at Peter’s own wrist, completing the clasp.

“What are yo—oh _god_!”

“Guess you don’t have as much advantage as you thought,” Sylar says, voice sickly sweet. Peter feels his hands spasm where they’re touching Sylar, the desire _Sylar_ is now forcing into him making his heart skip a beat. “You’re just so sensitive Peter,” Sylar continues. “Must be the empath in you.” 

Peter lets out a breathy laugh, letting his head drop as Sylar pushes up towards him. The arousal is sharp and hot, shooting up his arm from Sylar’s hand and tearing through his gut, driving down into his cock. Peter feels his dick strain painfully against his pants and cautions himself not to ease his own hold and ability from Sylar.

He recognizes that Sylar’s only pushing physical pleasure into his body, which of course creates a massive distraction but doesn’t cloud his mind. Peter’s used to the power now, understands not only how it works on others, but how it _feels_. He’s absolutely certain Sylar doesn’t.

With that, Peter pushes the forced desire over Sylar once more, changing the throb of the ability to pulses of mental joy – the intensity leaving Sylar’s body and being drawn inward. Sylar groans brokenly, eyes losing their focus and becoming lost. The grip on Peter’s wrist slackens but doesn’t let go – Sylar still obviously fighting for control.

The tendons in Sylar’s neck stand out and Peter leans down, presses kisses to the fluttering heartbeat he can feel under his lips. It takes a long time but Sylar eventually gets consumed by the mental heat, his body relaxing enough for Peter to feel confident to remove one hand again. He awkwardly removes Sylar’s top, unable to remove his hand at Sylar’s wrist and curses silently at his lack of telekinesis. 

With the added expanse of skin being offered to him, Peter strokes one hand up Sylar’s chest and slowly unclasps his other hand from Sylar’s wrist. He pushes the newly freed hand up Sylar’s arm, digging fingers into muscle and pushing his power further and deeper into the body beneath him. Sylar whimpers, a sound Peter savors and follows his hands with his mouth, shifting over Sylar to settle more comfortably.

“You told me this ability was good for either entertainment, or torture,” Peter says to Sylar’s lax expression. “Guess which one I plan on using?”

Peter calmly watches Sylar, feeling out the tendrils of the simulated arousal wrap around Sylar’s body, chaining up his will. Sylar looks drugged, eyes roving restlessly over Peter’s face. When Peter raises a hand to grip at Sylar’s hair, Sylar’s eyes follow the movement. The sight makes Peter feel a little uncomfortable, knowing that Sylar would never offer this amount of trust or openness if he wasn’t under the influence of ability. 

He loosens his fingers in Sylar’s hair, strokes the strands back and away from Sylar’s face and leans in close.

“Do you want this?”

Sylar’s reply is almost a sigh, his tone lighter and higher, sounding dreamy. The ‘yes’ doesn’t sound like Sylar at all and Peter frowns, loosening the hold on his power. Peter repeats his question, says each word slowly and pointedly. Sylar’s face scrunches up as if in pain and Peter draws more of the ability away, trying to give Sylar room to escape his headspace. The way Sylar’s body begins to tense up alerts Peter and he prepares himself for Sylar overthrowing him, still keeping a reedy hold of the pleasure.

Sylar’s arms shoot up, hands coming to grip at Peter’s shoulders roughly as he turns them, swapping position. Peter tries to feel confident as he looks up into Sylar’s growling face, his own fear quickening his heart.

Sylar tosses his head as if trying to clear his thoughts before he presses Peter harder into the bed, fingers digging into Peter painfully.

“I underestimated you Peter.” Sylar draws a fist back and delivers a punch that sweeps across Peter’s cheek and explodes his face into pain. Nothing breaks nor bleeds but Peter knows his cheek will lose its current rosy red and become a bruise at some point. The raw nerves in his cheek go from bleeding out pain to heated elation as Sylar forces his ability on Peter once again. Peter moans and can’t help himself as he arches into Sylar’s touches, the feel of Sylar’s fingers digging into his scalp as he crushes them into a kiss.

Sylar pulls back, simply leans over Peter and breathes into Peter’s mouth. It takes a moment for Peter to regain his senses and realize his body isn’t being set on fire by euphoria, Sylar’s hands are simply cradling Peter’s head.

Sylar shifts back further, far enough for him to meet Peter’s gaze fully.

“Do your worst Peter,” Sylar taunts, fingers flexing. Peter figures it’s the best consent he’ll ever get to ease his conscience afterwards and raises his hands to mimic Sylar’s pose. He pushes pleasure fast and hot into Sylar’s body, feels Sylar lose control of his limbs and half falls onto Peter, his hips meeting Peter’s and their legs tangling.

Peter eases Sylar back to the bed and notices Sylar watching him with a confident grin. He tries not to acknowledge how _present_ Sylar seems to be as he works the power into Sylar’s body slowly, focusing on the physical aspect only. There’s something telling about the fact Sylar’s letting him do this – perhaps feeling as if Peter is justified in his actions. It makes Peter feel dirty, but even so he doesn’t dare back out now, watching Sylar grunt and groan at Peter’s ability-tinged touches.

A long drawn out moan as Peter sucks on a pulse point has Peter wonder if he can still retain the sexual high without touch. He sits back and considers it, letting his hands move away from Sylar’s skin and start in on Sylar’s pants. Peter lets his fingers scrape the exposed skin as he pulls the jeans and boxers down, watches Sylar cry out and his hands curl and uncurl at his sides.

Taking a breath, Peter moves up and off the bed and stands there, watching over Sylar’s twitching body. There’s no contact between them and Peter can still feel his power moving through Sylar, can see that it’s still affecting him. It’s enough proof that he’s managed to get the ability to work without physical contact and Peter swears softly in triumph.

He tugs the last of Sylar’s clothes off, lets them land on the floor in a mess and watches Sylar curl in on himself, moaning quietly. 

Peter breathes in and out, long breaths to help him concentrate as he flexes the ability over Sylar’s body, building it in waves until he has Sylar exactly where he needs him to be. 

“Peter,” Sylar groans out, sounding desperate and drawing out the name in two long syllables. The sound strikes Peter to his core, but he steels himself and leaves his bedroom and walks stiffly out of his apartment.

-o-

He returns much later, the sound of his key in the lock loud in the hallway. A part of him expects that Sylar managed to overthrow his hold on him – his distance would have made it easier for Sylar. Another part of him wonders what he’ll expect to find if Sylar couldn’t break free. Entering his apartment, Peter slips off his shoes and prepares for the worst – Sylar looming in the shadows preparing to kill him, or Sylar gone having escaped.  
Peter hears Sylar before he sees him and it feel like an age before he’s been able to move towards the bed and stand beside it.

Sylar is damp, sweat clinging to every part of his flushed body, making his hair look sleek and his skin shiny. He’s moving, slowly, side to side in a small rocking motion but there’s tremors running through him that Peter finds easier to spot.

Mouth open and eyes wide open, Sylar is panting out half moans, his voice sounding raw and broken. Sylar’s curled on his side slightly, one hand making aborted clutching motions from where it’s resting on the bed and the other weakly stroking over his cock.  
Peter moves to the side Sylar’s facing and crouches so that he’s eye level to Sylar. The eyes staring back at him are dark, shiny and so blown with lust that Peter can’t help but stare in shock.

Peter slowly reaches a hand out, fingers grazing Sylar’s cheek and provoking a keening noise.

“Peter, Peter,” Sylar chants, dragging the name out just as he had before Peter had left. He keeps saying it, over and over again, muttering it, moaning it, crying it until Peter moves his fingers over Sylar’s lips, silencing him. Sylar’s mouth opens under Peter’s fingers and he sucks them in slowly, as if he’s barely got any energy left. Peter tugs his fingers free, winces as the wet sounds shoot heat through his gut. He stands and considers the situation before crawling onto the bed, straddling Sylar who lets out a new fresh babble of nonsense that descends into moans at the contact. 

Sylar’s skin is burning hot and slick, the flush crawling up his chest and throat makes his chest hair look even darker. Peter gently removes Sylar’s hand from his cock and takes both Sylar’s hands into his own, pressing them to lie on Sylar’s chest. He stays in this position, Sylar’s hard cock pressing against his own through the barrier of jeans as he leans his weight on Sylar’s chest, trapping his hands.

Peter wants to say something, wants to warn Sylar that this is what happens when Sylar goes around hurting people with his abilities. He wants to point out to Sylar that this is what it feels like to be trapped and confused, to be left with no choice. Thousands of lectures, of thoughts and words wind through Peter’s mind but all that tumbles out is silence. He’s transfixed by the sight of Sylar aroused to the point of insanity.

Peter leans down slowly and presses a kiss to Sylar’s lips, swallows the whimpers that are breaking out of Sylar with each touch. He can feel Sylar trying for _more_ but being caught in such a thrall for so long has left him utterly weak, his energy running out from the onslaught of a constant _need_.

“I’m sorry,” Peter offers, knowing it for both the right and wrong thing to say.  
He lets one of his hands unclasp from Sylar’s and snakes it down between their bodies until he’s able to grasp Sylar’s cock, the heat burning Peter’s hand. Peter stretches out, pulls Sylar up with his other hand and kisses him, feels Sylar suck on his tongue. 

It only takes a few easy strokes of Sylar’s cock before Peter’s tasting Sylar’s cry and feeling come slick over his hand. He stays there, letting Sylar tongue-fuck his mouth open as his hand gently strokes the last of Sylar’s orgasm out.

Peter eases his control over his ability, feels it leech its way out of Sylar and return to him, a warmth building in his hands. It makes him feel lightheaded, his skin tingly.  
Beneath him Sylar tosses, gasping breathes that roll into moans and soft whimpers.  
“Stop,” Sylar moans, eyes squeezed tight. “Fuck, _stop_.”

Peter presses his lips together tightly, forcing himself not to whisper comfort or apologies. Stopping the removal of the power is the one thing he _can’t_ do but he understands what Sylar means – the gaping ache of emptiness that the aftermath seems to create.

The murmured pleas from Sylar fade into unrecognizable soft noises and Peter holds him through it, draining away the last of the pleasure until he’s sure no more of the ability resides in Sylar.

He hides his face in the hollow of Sylar’s throat, feels Sylar’s entire body trembling underneath him and hears hitching breathes brushing across the back of his head.

-o-

Peter loses time, waking up from a light doze at the touch of fingers digging into the back of his neck. The pressure increases, turning into pain and making Peter wince, pulling the skin tight across the bruise on his cheek. His teeth grit as the fingers dig in deeper, the bite of nails feeling sharp and Peter’s entire body tenses at the pain as he tries to wait it out. After a moment the grip on Peter’s neck slackens, Sylar’s hand falling away and coming to land on the mattress heavily. Peter rolls off Sylar and shuffles to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over the side and simply sitting, waiting.

“It doesn’t go both ways,” Peter says into the silent room. He can hear Sylar shift on the bed behind him. “I thought when you attacked me that it… I thought it made the giver receive the same pleasure.”

Sylar doesn’t say anything, only breaths tell Peter that he is still in the room.

“I spent a long time trying to work it out, control it so that I could pay your _gift_ back. When I realized the feeling only went one way, I stopped thinking about how I could humiliate you and instead focused on how I could break you. I wanted you to feel a hundred times worse than what I did. I wanted you to beg.”

Peter turns to look back over his shoulder and notes Sylar’s gaze is fixed on the ceiling, the lines of his jaw looking tight.

“I guess I’m not that person. I shouldn’t have done what I did.”

Sylar says nothing, but his eyes roll towards Peter, head never moving. The gaze and silence makes Peter feel uncomfortable and he looks away, hearing Sylar make a soft scoffing noise. He looks to his feet and flexes his toes, unsure of what more he could say, not to necessarily make it _right_ but make it okay between them. 

The bed shifts, a weight moving and Peter starts to hear the sounds of Sylar’s feet padding on the floor and the rustle of clothes. 

“Sylar,” Peter begins, strained. Sylar stands on the other side of the bed, pants pulled up but fly still undone, a shirt fisted at his side. His dark eyes stare Peter down, almost challenging him to continue. Peter stands and moves around the bed to stand before Sylar.

“I want you to take the ability away from me, let me take on one of yours.”

“Afraid you’ll use it for bad deeds?”

Peter takes the taunt for what it is, lets it settle along with the rest of the guilt he feels.  
“The healing, that’s—

“Rather a passive ability,” Sylar cuts in, smiling darkly. Peter stops himself from throwing the punch he wants to commit, suspecting the annoyance is clear on his face going by Sylar’s knowing smirk. “Oh don’t worry Peter, I accept.”

Sylar moves quickly, hand snapping out to grab at Peter’s arm and making the contact Peter needs to absorb the healing. The healing flows through him, searching out abnormalities to fix, swarming to his cheek and smoothing the bruise out of his skin. Sylar’s moves his hand to clutch at Peter’s chin, turning his face side to side as if inspecting.

“Good as new,” Sylar comments, quirking an eyebrow. He steps back and draws his shirt over his head, stretching up into the fabric. Sylar meets Peter’s eyes once his shirt is back on, the added clothing creating makeshift barriers between them.

“Do your worst,” Peter says, echoing Sylar’s earlier words.

The grin that breaks over Sylar’s face makes Peter’s skin crawl but he refuses to stand down, keeping his ground.

“You morphed the ability before when you used it on me, broke my concentration.”  
Peter’s surprised that Sylar hadn’t known it could be used in that way.

“Mental pleasure, instead of just physical,” Peter offers. Sylar tilts his head, as if listening to something, murmuring in acknowledgement to himself before straightening once more.

“Ah, I see it.”

Cupping a hand to Peter’s face, Sylar leans in close and watches expectantly. If Peter could, he would’ve groaned in slight annoyance as Sylar expertly flares the ability over him. It’d taken seconds for Sylar to conquer what had taken Peter hours to master. The power is tentative at first, simply relaxing him, a pleasant ease calming his mind.   
As the high goes deeper, builds more as Sylar increases its output, Peter finds it difficult not to start fighting back, feeling his thoughts struggle through the pleasant haze overtaking him.

Like a thread snapping in Peter’s mind, the forced ecstasy takes him over completely and he drowns in the waves, so far under it seems impossible to reach out. Peter forgets why he’s supposed to be fighting and closes his eyes.

He feels lightheaded, dreamy and so open and _free_. Fingers are touching his face, making him feel warm and safe and Peter can’t help but press into the touch, wanting more.

“Peter.”

He zeroes in on the voice, feels it call to him deep inside, demanding his attention. The only thing that matters to Peter is the voice saying his name and the fingers at his temples.

“What do you want?” The question brings answers that threaten to break his calm, this elation, but something pulls them away and out of Peter’s mind, allowing him to answer the only thing that feels true.

“You,” Peter says, breathing it out, a half whisper.

Slight pressure on his temples and that inner warmth curls through him completely, easing away any doubt or worry. The voice repeats the question and Peter can’t help but reply, “Anything you want.”

Peter floats in the need of wanting to belong to this voice, those fingers. He feels drugged, floating in bliss, feeling nothing but safe and warm, finally wanted and taken care of.   
The spell breaks and Peter notices immediately that he isn’t being touched anymore, that the pleasurable feeling is fading. He opens his eyes and finds himself on his knees, blinking away a daze that leaves him tired. Sylar watches him from where he sits on the edge of the bed, arms resting on his legs.

Slowly, Peter begins to remember what just happened, the voice and the touches – his _answers_. He lifts his head higher at Sylar’s wide smirk and tries to pretend he isn’t flushed from embarrassment. 

“That place that you go to,” Sylar says, his hands twirling in a spiral motion at the word ‘place’. “Makes you say the strangest things.”

His tone is mocking, teasing and Peter feels the blush work higher. “ _Anything I want_ , right Peter?”

It’s not the truth, not now when Peter’s back in his body and no longer brainwashed by his own subspace. 

“Anything,” Peter agrees. He _deserves_ this for torturing Sylar using pleasure instead of pain.

Sylar pushes himself off the bed before he moves to Peter, crouching down so that they’re eye level. He takes Peter’s hands in his own and Peter feels the warm lick of the power wrap around his fingers, sweeping over his hands. Sylar’s hands feel hot and dry, their grip strong and Peter flexes his fingers, feeling the ability stretch over his skin. Peter watches Sylar let him go and move back to sit on the bed again, his eyes taking in the sight. Unsure what Sylar wants from him, Peter lets his hands drop and relaxes into his kneel to avoid a cramp. A moment passes before Peter’s hand grazes across his own leg and Peter hisses out a breath, startled at the feeling. Experimentally he pushes his palm flat against his thigh, the contact heating his skin. It takes him a while to notice the extra sensation of invisible touches crawl up his back, having mistaken them for trickles of sweat. They tickle, moving up his spine to slide up over his collar bone and dip slowly down his chest. It’s an empty feeling, void of the intense emotions that his own hands seem to be emitting. 

Catching Sylar’s eyes, Peter reaches up to remove his shirt, gasping every time his fingers brush against his skin, electric shocks of arousal biting into him. A part of him is curious, nagging him to run his hands up over his stomach, mindful of Sylar’s sharp gaze. He bites down on his lip to catch a moan, feeling the rough skin of his fingertips drag against his chest. Each slide of skin feels like a whisper against his cock and Peter shifts, spreading his legs into a wider kneel to ease the pressure. 

Fingers trembling, Peter touches his body, a thrumming _need_ building under his skin and bleeding out the moment his fingers graze across it. Cold telekinesis pushes at his muscles and joints and Peter gasps as he’s forced to shove his pants and underwear down. His own touches and Sylar’s ability running through him has made his cock hard, and Peter cries out when the invisible pull forces him to touch himself. It’s so _good_ it’s almost agony and Peter hunches, one hand shooting forward to the ground, bracing himself. 

“Slower Peter,” calls Sylar’s sarcastic voice and Peter groans, following the command. His entire body trembling, Peter pumps himself slowly, unable to help himself as he tightens the hold, hips stuttering into the grip. Peter desperately wants to look up at Sylar, tempted to show his face but he can’t look away from his own body, the way his hand strokes over his dick. It takes all his energy not to go against Sylar’s word and stroke himself faster, feeling himself already lost to his own touch.

“Peter,” Sylar sing-songs. “Oh Peter, you should see yourself.”

The voice is so mocking and almost cruel it breaks Peter’s rhythm and he forces his head up to look at Sylar. Peter moans, his concentration faltering at the look on Sylar’s face. He pumps himself faster, unable to help it as he pushes himself to the edge. Sylar’s voice may have been taunting but his face was anything but, with eyes wide and dark, mouth parted and his cheeks bright with a soft flush.

Sylar raises his hand, stretched out towards Peter and Peter keens as his body becomes engulfed in the feeling of rapture. The moment Sylar closes his fist Peter comes, the ability driving him over the edge and blinding him. 

There’s come slicked over his hand and on his pants but Peter can barely focus, his brain feeling fuzzy, his body exhausted. Tiny tremors of the ability tease at his nerves and Peter moans pitifully, both hands pressed against the floor now as he bends over, trying to catch his breath.

The power draws away from him, the cold empty feeling returning as the pleasure leaves. His neck feels itchy, the sweat cooling and Peter struggles to sit up and stand. He bends, using a hand on the bed to brace himself, legs feeling weak. Sylar snorts at him before he stands and passes Peter, pausing at the doorway to look back as Peter crawls onto the bed, exhausted. Peter tries to keep his eyes open, to watch Sylar.

“Pathetic.” The word should be harsh, but Sylar whispers it like a secret. Peter tries to ask who Sylar is talking about but his words feel thick and Peter is too tired to fight past the silence. He watches Sylar walk away before his eyes slip close, pushing him to sleep and Peter wonders if he’ll ever see Sylar again.


End file.
